


nostalgie de la boue

by ffonippop



Series: after me, the flood [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Drunk Sex, Georgenotfound (Video Blogging RPF) is trying his best, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Hopeful Ending, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Moral Lessons, Post-Break Up, Reconcilation, Relationship Problems, Trust Issues, impulsive Georgenotfound (Video Blogging RPF), that doesn't mean they're bad people, they're not always good people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-23 11:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffonippop/pseuds/ffonippop
Summary: George misses domesticity. Dream fears vulnerability.Together, they can be better.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: after me, the flood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163735
Comments: 81
Kudos: 429
Collections: Stuff that I've read and I recommend





	nostalgie de la boue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loglady1980](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loglady1980/gifts).



> ayo lmfao welcome back ig. poggers of u for idk liking coup de grace enough to come back lol. sorry for the french titles, they just got funny lil phrases lmfao
> 
> i worked hard on this, and i hope that when ur reading it, u take a moment to think to urself 'yeah ok' bc that would be enough for me
> 
> anyway enjoy. and if u dont idk,,,, sorry i guess LMFAO
> 
> alyssa

Time passes no matter the circumstance.

That's one of many things George has been learning to accept since his last interaction with Dream, and with his experience in trying to understand the lesson in it's entirety, George can definitively say it's an _uncomfortable truth._

It's an awkward thing for George (who does his best in trying to _avoid_ discomfort) to finally attempt accepting.

It's an awkward thing to know that regardless of how _used_ he is to getting his way, regardless of how _upset_ or _heartbroken_ or _exhausted_ he may be, the world will continue to turn the same way it's been turning since forever. 

That is, slowly at first, in seconds, unnoticeable and imperceptible in the grand scheme of things.

Slowly at first, so it gives the impression of not turning at all.

Slowly at first. 

But slow movements of the earth eventually add up into minutes, to hours, to days, to weeks, until one day, George manages to find strength in all the regrets he's ever had, looks up from the grief-filled prison, and finds that the world hasn't stopped spinning around him the way he thought it had been.

It's been turning, and it continues to turn on the same axis it's always turned on, uncaring of any of George's feelings, oblivious to any of his woes, and as it turns, the leaves of the trees around George change also. 

And everything keeps moving. 

Seconds. To minutes. To hours. To days. 

Life continues to go on, even when George's not actively participating, because time doesn't give a _fuck_ about the pit of depression he's dug for himself. Time doesn't give a shit about him. 

And it sounds demoralizing, George _knows_ , but it's _not_ really, because the world may continue to turn, but there's a small comfort in knowing that you turn with it, stuck and limited by the same gravity as every other person on Earth.

And as everything changes, he does too.

There's a strange sense of comfort in that - a small bit of solace in knowing he's not being left behind. 

Everyone changes. Whether they want to or not. 

And maybe, for George, changing means he starts to want the things he used to hate. 

Changing means becoming the people he used to despise, beginning to miss domesticity after every meaningless hookup that used to bring him joy but doesn't anymore even though the thought of it used to make him shudder with distaste all those months ago. 

Maybe, for George, the restlessness and recklessness he used to pride himself in having though his entire life becomes tamer, a softer sort of second nature rather than the core of his entire explosive being, and he starts to _yearn_ for the things he'd taken advantage of in the past. 

Maybe, for George, change means caring more.

Change means starting to miss him more. Miss him more than George has ever missed anything before. Miss him so much that a part of George wishes he'd never even met him in all his blond haired, green eyed, and freckled glory. 

Miss him so much, it feels like the world's not moving without his gentle aggression, his mellow passion, his magnetic presence. 

But the world _is_ moving.

And it keeps moving.

And suddenly, it's the first day of Summer. 

* * *

The shift of the seasons announces itself in a fiery passion, unapologetic and without warning as it covers George and the rest of the general population in a suffocating blanket of discomforting heat and humidity. 

Inside, the bar is hot with the breaths and body heat of the lively and packed crowds.

Outside, it's even hotter, the temperature heating up pavements to the point where standing still on the hot roads warmed your feet through the soles of your shoes. 

The summertime heat beats the springtime cold that had been looming over world away with humid and unforgiving 83°F fury, but the season's just started, and despite the _horrid_ weather, people are eager to partake in the beginning of Summer festivities, bearing the heat to go out and have fun with loud crowds in messy bars. 

When left alone, George is not usually the type of person who chooses to willingly subject himself to terrible weather just to join in on seasonal festivities, but his friends are. 

Manic and unhealthily addicted to going out and getting drunk, George's friends are textbook peer-pressure peers, dragging him to places to join in on their activities, and George, ever the thrill-seeker afraid of falling into routine, can never really deny their offers of adventure, especially when denying adventures means denying the only people he's fond of. 

His friends are tenacious. They're fearless and reckless and so fucking alive, and they're aware enough understand what it is to be human but careless enough to not let that limit them. 

They're the reasons why George's life is so interesting and fast paced and always fucking moving. Loud and made of motion, George's friends don't stop for anybody - not even George.

And they're their fair share tender and caring and affectionate, but they've got silver tongues and biting remarks at every conversation and they're never afraid of telling things as they are. 

That's why, unlike how it is with most people, George can _stand_ to be around his friends. 

They're caring, but never _too_ caring. Constant, but never too predictable. Affectionate, but never to the point of clinginesss.

They don't baby George. They don't keep him at the sidelines to make sure he's safe. They don't look at George and see something breakable the way most everyone else does. They look at George and see _fun_. 

Honest and unpredictable. That's what they are.

More _importantly_ , they're the reason George is at this particular bar at this particular night in this particularly _assfuck_ _temperature_ , miserably sat at the bar by himself as his they laugh loudly with their other friends.

Even _more importantly_ , they're the reason _Dream's_ here too.

* * *

They were bound to run into each other in one of these big group hangouts eventually.

Broken up or not, Dream and George still had mutual friends.

Hell, through a mutual friend's party is how they _met_ in the first place, so it's no big surprise when through a mutual friend's party is really the only way they ever had a chance of meeting again, taking into account the conditions of their _last_ meeting.

So yes, seeing Dream again in one these parties after months of not speaking and blocked numbers was bound to happen. George might even to as far as to say that this was honestly _expected_. 

But just because he's anticipated this reunion doesn't mean George knows what to do with himself now that it's happened and they're _here_.

Here, at the start of Summer, where the blond's currently stood near the pool table ignoring George's gaze as if he had not told the brunet he wanted to fucking _choke him to death_ no less than seven months ago.

Here, where George is practically inhaling straight vodka to try to get himself blacked out enough so he doesn't have to be aware of how messy - how _wrecked_ he looks.

Here. 

Truthfully, George had only actually agreed to even come to this bar in search of some hookup, because he really _did_ need to get fucking railed, but that need had been _before_ he saw Dream and every plan he had of getting fucked when he'd agreed to come disappeared as if they were never there.

It's with a tinge of shame for George to admit that he can only really blame himself for his feelings. 

And if he were being honest, George can't bring himself to be mad at Dream for ruining his plans for the night just by showing up. Not when he's just as perfect and angry as the first time they ever met.

There's an unhealthy amount of self assurance in green eyes that George can't see the way everyone else does, and there's confidence in his youthful stride that George had missed _so much it hurt._ His laugh is contagious, drowning out all the others, even in this loud environment, a show of strength in itself. 

He looks better off than George, who's wrecked by the mere sight of him, who was wrecked before his friends dragged him to the fucking bar, who's been wrecked for _a while_ and has only now just begun to realized it.

Dream looks better off than George, head thrown back, laughing animatedly with a group that had been pulled in by his lively passion, stood at the opposite side of the bar from George, the sides of his eyes creased prominently in amusement.

He's just as intimidating and flamboyant and charming as he's always been. 

But he's _different_ to George who's uncomfortably familiar with the little bits of anger that hid behind the surface of his laughter, that lingered around the stresses of his syllables, because while every laugh from Dream's lips remind George of everything they were, everything they could have been, there's a part of him that reminds George of their _uglier_ moments too.

Dream is alluring. But George can't miss him without remembering those angry nights of full of merciless stares and screaming matches, can't miss him without remembering the last words they'd said to each other. 

_There's nothing more I want in this moment than to wrap my hands around your neck and hurt you for everything you said to me...._

Dream's voice repeats that abhorred admission over and over again in George's head until it become so intolerable, George is forced to shake his head until his brain hurts to expel the thoughts from his mind.

Seeing Dream again brings forth emotions that makes the weaker of the two wish he'd never left home tonight at all.

The bar's atmosphere is little help.

ABBA's _Honey, Honey_ plays faintly through the speakers installed on the corners of the bar ceilings, mostly drowned out by the sounds of laughter and intermingling voices and clinking of glass and bottles. 

The lights are pink and gentle and dimmed but not dim enough to hide Dream's prominent freckles from across the room, not dim enough to hide George's growing drunk flush and messed up hair from where he'd been weaving his fingers through them nervously, not dim enough to be depressing.

Just the right amount of party dim for people looking to enjoy themselves, and George, _decidedly_ , was _not_ one of those people.

He sits at the furthest bar stool from the pool table on the bar, occasionally being the subject of the bartender's concerned stares as he orders more and more alcoholic beverages with less and less breaks in between. 

And it's weird for him to be plastered at the corner of the bar, small and unseen, because usually, he isn't _invisible_ to the party crowd. 

Usually, he's the star of the show, the careless flirt with a suggestive drunk smile and persuasive, pretty pink lips, fragile under pink lights. _Usually_ , he's the cute boy that gives out soft blowjobs in the bathroom, the party-goer that says yes to every dare. _Usually_ , he's _easy_. 

_Usually_ , George _isn't_ sat at the corner of the room, pathetically downing vodka shots and ignoring the concerned stare of the bartender as he keeps ordering more and more when he really ought to be drinking water. 

Usually, he's not like _this_ wrecked. But tonight, he plans to be.

Distinct laughter explodes at the pool table Dream's group surrounds.

George raises his hand to call the bartender back. He miserably asks for the drinks to keep coming. 

* * *

The night passes.

People leave in pairs or groups around George, and at some point, he looks up, scans the crowd, and finds none of the people who came here with him are still in the building. 

George finds the perpetual feeling of loneliness creep up his throat once more, and it's fucked and it hurts and George fucking hates how it keeps hurting more and _more_ until the hurt turns into self loathing and he spirals into some sick sort of pity party for himself.

The night continues to pass.

The bar becomes quieter as more and more people leave, or maybe George's just gotten to the point of drunk where sounds begin to fade out.

Either way, the world makes way for brief interludes of silence for George. The quieter atmosphere is much needed. He can feel tomorrow's hangover ghosting over him with disappointed eyes.

If he focuses, he can almost feel George of tomorrow hating George of tonight for drinking so much so quickly. He can almost feel the self hatred of tonight creep over him as he gets ever closer to tomorrow and, in turn, gets closer to hangover.

He can feel so much. 

In an effort to retain blissful apathy, he lays his head against the bar counter, covers himself with thin arms, and tries not to feel anything at all. 

(It works for a bit.) 

Next to him, the empty stool to his left creaks a little, signaling the arrival of a newcomer.

George tries and pays it no mind, though there's a trace amount of annoyance that passes head at the awareness that, despite the row of empty bar stools, someone's chosen to sit next to _him_ and disturb the little bubble of self-pity he's made for himself with their presence. 

But the newcomer announces himself coolly and annoyance is replaced by some other unidentifiable emotion.

That _voice_. 

"It's late," Dream says.

George raises his head from the bar, slow, hesitant, afraid.

The copious amounts of alcohol he'd swallowed down makes him vulnerable but he's certain that even if he were sober, he'd still be just as brittle under Dream's critical stare. 

It's unfair how fragile Dream's eyes can make him feel. It's unfair.

And he's planned... so much to say. For this moment.

For the moment Dream looks at him and says something instead of just walking the other way. He's planned for this almost every night since they broke up. 

He'd planned apologies. Planned accusations. Planned how he'd grovel to be with Dream again, how he'd yell if he needed to. Planned, and planned, and planned, and planned. 

But met with Dream's composed blank stare and unfairly smooth voice, all the memories of sleepless nights he'd spent anticipating for Dream's return to his life comes crashing back and George's mind can't help but draw a blank. 

Dream raises a brow at George's silence, and in a moment, the thoughtlessness disappears, suffocated under a wall of _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you_ as images of their time together passes through George's head with overwhelming speed. 

But it's equally as useless in the moment. _I love you_ isn't what they need. _I love you_ wouldn't fix things, wouldn't be fair. George presses his lips together in the shape of a line and stays silent. 

Dream stares at him, and the lack of affection in his eyes is unfamiliar enough to remind George that they're not who they were months ago. 

Things aren't so easy now. None of it is as effortless as it used to be. 

"You should go home."

It's hardly good words for a reunion. 

George pushes down his disappointed thoughts and swallows thickly, nervous and jumpy and so, so afraid of the Dream in front of him - the version of Dream that doesn't smirk playfully at him, that doesn't talk with gentle challenge, that didn't lean closer than strictly necessary. 

The space between them is as suffocating as it is large. 

Brown eyed man takes a shaky breath, preparing himself, and it doesn't quite take all the nervousness out, but it helps. 

"Yeah," George agrees, and his voice cracks involuntarily. Did he always sound so small? Or was that new as well? He sounds so fucking _breakable_. "I, uh... I know." 

Dream nods, a mechanical sort of motion, and the lack of emotion on his face really brings it all together. If there's still even a _hint_ of affection in his head when he looks at George, he doesn't show it. 

"D'you have a ride?" Dream asks.

 _Will you be the one who takes me home?_ George's head supplies, urging him to muster up the courage to say it out loud. _And if you are, then will you still be there when I wake up?_

Some thoughts are better off unsaid. 

Some things are better off filed away into George's head for no one but him to hear. Some things don't need to be announced to Dream, who's towering over him with an unreadable expression, awaiting his answer with an expectant stare. 

"No. My, uh. My friends left early." And after a beat, he feels the need to say, "Sorry."

Dream frowns. It looks more hostile than it really should, like George's apology makes him angry, like George's sorry state makes him furious.

"Don't apologize." It's an order.

George thinks he's heard that before, spoken in a torturous sort of way over a tense dinner before an explosive breakup. George thinks he's heard that before, spoken by the same man who'd said it lifetimes ago.

_I'm sorry, then._

_Don't be_ , the words ring in George's head with a vague sense of sorrow remembrance. George thinks he's heard that before. It hurts just as much as it did the first time _. I don't want an apology._

Dream nods as the awkward, tension-filled silence stretches over them. He licks his drying lips and announces, "I'll call you an Uber."

They're so different now. 

No more careless flirting. No more teasing. No more casual conversation. No more touching. Just... whatever the hell _this_ is. 

George takes a risky breath and asks, "Can't you drive me home?" 

And maybe it's how drunk he is, how unguarded the alcohol makes him, but before he can process what he's saying, he's already said it.

Dream looks at him with a look of distaste that says _No_ a thousand times over and George immediately regrets ever asking.

He's got that thin frown on his freckled face. The one that says, _You said something I didn't like_. The one that George used to like teasing him about but doesn't even like _seeing_ anymore. 

George hates it.

He hates how furrowed Dream's eyebrows get, how his green eyes bore into George's soul with stiff indifference, how he doesn't scoot any further away, but space still appears between them.

Once, they were both destruction, but now, George is nothing but a flimsy house of cards, and Dream, an oncoming storm. 

The storm opens his mouth. 

"No," Dream says, succinct, dismissive, sharp and abrasive. He leaves no room for discussion. 

George swallows.

He's sober at that moment, fighting back shaky words, fighting back the push of tears, and for perhaps the hundredth time tonight, he wonders when he became so delicate. 

He grips at the hem his shirt, stares down at his thighs to keep himself from seeing disappointed greens. 

"Okay." The word sounds tight, pulled taut, at the verge of cracking but not quite yet. "Sorry."

Dream frowns again, his eyebrows furrowing up with agitation. He breathes, heavy and exhausted and George feels embarrassment creep up his throat.

"Don't do this, George. Not now." 

George nods, and he thinks he's about to cry.

"Okay," he repeats.

His voice grows more pathetic by the minute. He doesn't know how long he can keep the choked sobs in, but if Dream continues to stare at him like that, George knows it won't be long. 

Thankfully, God takes mercy on him. Dream stands from the bar stool.

"I'll go call you that Uber."

George nods, quick. "Thank you."

And he can do nothing but stare as Dream and walks further away to make the call.

He stares, blurry-eyed and amazed at how seven months can make the closest people into strangers. He continues to stare. He misses. He wishes. He regrets and he hopes. 

And he abruptly looks away when Dream turns around and starts walking back.

Dream pockets his phone, pulls out his wallet, and hands George a fifty. George takes it without a word, nodding thankfully, because it's easier not to say anything. The air is still fragile. He doesn't want to be the one to break everything again. 

"Driver'll be here in twenty minutes," Dream says. "That should cover the ride." 

Again, "Thank you."

The thanks goes unacknowledged. "Call me if anything goes wrong."

And George manages to stare at Dream as he raises a confused brow.

"What?" 

Dream matches the arched brow with his own, as if daring George to say no, and George won't say no, but he definitely questions it. 

"If anything goes wrong," the blond repeats, slower this time, as if that was what George was confused about. "Call me. If you've got fucking alcohol poisoning or your Uber costs more than what I gave you or something."

George purses his lips. He blinks.

"You, uh.... You have my number blocked. I think." _I know_.

Dream stiffens a bit, but he relaxes just as quick, playing off the reaction with a roll of his eyes, like the solution is obvious, and it really is. "I'll unblock it."

"Right." George feels stupid. "Sorry."

"Hey, man -" Fucking _man_ , George thinks bitterly. Not _baby_ or _babe_ or _honey_ or even just _George_. "- stop apologizing."

Dream frowns down at George, looking at him as if he were a stranger, and it would hurt less if Dream insulted him to his face. For fear of saying anything incriminating, George stays silent.

The more composed of the two sighs when he doesn't get a reply, and he runs a large, freckled hand through his blond hair, and looks away. 

Maybe it's George's traitorous _hope_ , but he thinks Dream looks like he wants to do something more, to say something more. He looks like he's keeping himself from having it, looks so painfully restrained, and George immediately wonders what Dream would do if he weren't keeping himself restrained.

Would Dream kiss him? Or would he make do of last Christmas's promise and hurt George? 

George thinks either would be fine. 

But Dream only sighs, sorrowful and somber, and despite the affection that manages to worm its way into the sigh, Dream stands as if he doesn't care.

He holds himself with dignity as he does with passion, and when he stands up and regards George with a cynical stare, George can't help but feel shame pool up in his gut. 

Dream has the decency to look at least a little reluctant to leave.

"Goodnight, George."

Disappointed, George can do nothing but nod. He breathes, and the hurt seeps into his breath.

"Goodnight."

They take one last look at each other, silent conversation passing between them.

Dream's face of distaste. George's pathetic eyes. 

_Keep distant_ , Dream's gaze says.

 _I miss you_ , is George's response. 

* * *

George gets home without any problems.

He falls asleep and wakes up late into the afternoon, the sun high up in the sky because it's Summer, and the days are longer and hotter and more unbearable.

He remembers last night with both dread and relief (and hope) and pulls out his phone, tapping on Dream's contact.

He ignores the messages he'd sent Dream months ago, the messages he'd tried to send when he was sad and drunk and fucked up, the messages he'd sent before Dream blocked his number and he cried to his empty room.

He ignores _those_ messages and writes up a new one.

And as much as he wants to write an entire paragraph of apologies and explanations and everything that he's felt since their breakup, George know that would be nothing but unfair. For the both of them. 

So he settles. And types a single, simple word. 

_**George - 06/20/20 3:41 PM**_

_thanks._

For the first time in months, the message goes through. And for the first time In months, he gets a reply.

**_Dream - 06/20/20 3:54 PM_**

_No problem._

And maybe Dream forgot to, or Dream stopped simply caring.

But for whatever the reason, George's number stays unblocked.

* * *

They see each other again at the fourth of July. 

A party with their mutual friends. It seems it's the only way they can ever really bump into each other these days.

Dream is tall and tanned and freckled and he revels in under the golden Summer sun, holding the neck of a cold beer bottle, laughing at a joke someone in the group surrounding him had said. 

George, oddly, finds familiarity in the scene but he doesn't quite know what it reminds him _of_.

All he _really_ knows is Dream looks... so _himself_ , unaware George is there and watching him and missing his presence with every single part of him. He laughs freely, unguarded. Passionate in a way that says, _Look at me. I demand your attention._

Magnetic. A force to be reckoned with. 

He laughs the way he used to laugh at George's shitty jokes and quips, the way he used to laugh when George pulled some stupid stunt for attention, the way he used to laugh when George didn't fuck everything up.

 _Bravely_ , George thinks, the word popping up in his head unprompted, and it's laced with adoration and affection and a sense of sorrow. He laughs bravely.

Maybe brave to a fault. 

He's a monument of aggression and recklessness standing tall in a sea of gentle people. Strong and passionate and aggressive and fire, fire _, fire_.

And George, no matter how he _pretends_ to be like that, can never really do it the way Dream does.

Despite himself, despite the danger that announces itself with every step he takes, George walks over. 

He doesn't say anything when he eventually reaches Dream's side. Just stands in the presence of what once was and what could have been but wasn't. 

Dream looks at him and offers a small, barely there quirk of his lips, uncertain, maybe a little bit suspicious. His little smile isn't forced, but it's taut tight. 

Almost subconsciously, they start walking away from the group, too wrapped up in their own gravitational pulls to realize that they've isolated themselves from everyone else, too wrapped up in each other's tentative gazes to care. 

"Hey," Dream greets, unsteady, when they've gone a fair distance away from the people he'd previously been chatting up. 

And George nods timidly in recognition of the greeting. 

"I've been thinking about it more, lately," George says outright, because he's never really one for caring about small talk.

Dream's eyes widen at the suddenness of the statement, but he composes himself so quick George almost misses it.

He inhales sharply.

"Right now?" He sounds like he doesn't know whether to be angry or not, like he's debating it over in his head with a list of pros and cons and it would be funny if it wasn't so scary. "We're talking about this _right now?_ "

George nods timidly, standing his ground.

There's a creeping sense of anxiety that washes over him with keen eyes and somewhere in the bottomless pit he calls his gut, the anticipation of humiliation starts to loom, dangerous.

Still, he stands his ground. 

"I'd like to."

And when he hears how insecure he sounds, George forces himself to sound brave and adds, "You don't have to stay. You could do the face-to-face equivalent of blocking my number and ignore me." 

That was _unnecessary_.

Dream narrows his eyes at George, and George is ashamed to find the familiarity of anger calms his nerves a bit. It's something he knows how to navigate, no matter how terrible it is.

Angry Dream is much easier to deal with the Dream who stares at him with shy uncertainty and hidden irritation.

George finds comfort in it, finds even footing in Dream's subtle glare, finds a warmth in his chest in Dream's soft scowl. 

After a pause, Dream retorts with a much too confident, "If I do, will you call me small and insecure and tell me no one loves me?" 

_Fuck,_ George's internal monologue curses as he feels the consequences of _many_ of his actions rush him all at once. _Too angry._

"Sorry," George cringes out.

Dream sneers. Scoffs. Looks away.

"Fuck off with the apologies."

Patience is wearing thin for the both of them, but they're both so unnecessarily stubborn in their own rights, unrelenting and immovable and feeding off of each other's growing frustration like kerosene to a flame. 

George sighs, irritation hugging his words tightly.

He caves.

"I _am_ sorry, you know?" He huffs with annoyance. "I'm not just, like, saying it to make us feel better or anything."

Dream waves his sincerity away with a dismissive hand.

"I don't care, I think."

And George frowns. "You make it so hard to talk to you."

"No," Dream says, sharply. He takes a casual drink of his beer and shrugs. "I'm an easy person to talk to. If you're having a hard time, it's probably because I don't want to talk to you."

Dream raises a brow at George like it's a challenge.

(It is.) 

Frustrated, the shorter of the two men sucks in a sharp breath.

He swallows his pride, shoving away every atom in his body telling him not to, and apologizes with a short and vague, "Sorry." 

Dream frowns slightly at George. "I literally _just_ told you to shut up with the apologies."

It's not nearly a good apology and George flinches at Dream's statement, but when Dream's glare softens by the smallest bit, George finds that for the moment, it is _enough_.

He pockets the moment away and considers it one of the rare wins he has against Dream, considers it a rare instance where he doesn't fuck up for once.

The atmosphere changes with the sudden hush on Dream's voice.

George finds that the shift in the air between them makes him much more aware of the exhaustion that rests on his shoulders, weighing him down like an anchor on land.

"Look." George attempts, voice breaking before he pathetically tries to compose himself, willing his voice to sound braver than he feels. "Can I say something?"

Dream raises a brow.

At the moment, they are not equals. Maybe on equal ground, but not at the same level. 

It's clear in the way George has to look up when he wants to make eye contact with Dream, clear in the way he falls on Dream's shadow as the blond man stands tall in front of the sun, golden rays spilling over golden locks.

Clear in the way Dream looks down at George with apathetic green eyes that look ready to spill into anger. Clear in the way Dream waves a careless hand to give George permission to continue.

George continues. 

"I've been thinking. And I miss you."

Dream lets out a half sigh, half groan, head rolling back with the irritated breath as he starts, " _George_ -"

George shakes his head to shush Dream, and with an eye roll, Dream shuts his lips with a conflicted face, crossing his arms like some sort of fucking statue. 

George begins again, voice more timid, more careful.

It's a foreign thing for the shorter boy, to be making an active decision to be careful, and it's a bit uncomfortable having to be aware enough to keep yourself in check, but still, George tries. 

"I _know_ ," George says. "I know what you're thinking, and I'm _not_ asking to get back together and put this all behind us because I know I'm not, uhm, a particularly _good_ person to be around with sometimes. But I really, _really_ miss you. And I want to be better." 

It's a new dance, an odd stance, and George is already tired of performing it but he'll continue to sway on the same beat if it means he gets a chance of winning back what he misses. 

He misses the ease and understanding and goofiness of their past relationship, misses when things just functioned without serious talks and suppressed glares and words planted on conversations like landmines.

He misses the way things used to happen without fear or tension. 

But it's too late to go back to that easy reality now. 

He just... has to make sure to do his best with what he has and hope it's not too late to try again. 

So George sucks in a breath and asks, "So _can_ we stop dancing around each other during these fucking parties and have conversations again?" 

Dream stares at him with plain indifference, jaw clenched just the slightest bit, stare stony and immovable. 

"What do you expect us to do now?" Dream scoffs. "Do you want to fuck or something?"

It's a joke. George knows it's a joke.

But he cocks his head and says, "If you want to."

Hesitance is clear in Dream's furrowed gaze.

"No," he says, and it sounds weaker than anything he's said so far.

George finds himself more amused than he really has the right to be by Dream's narrowed eyes, and when Dream spots George's grin, annoyance replaces temptation. 

Instead of bantering, he sighs in quiet surrender. "I don't forgive you."

George closes his eyes. 

"I know," he says. "I miss you."

Dream nods. "Alright."

* * *

Halloween. 

Some stupid idiot mixed fruit punch in the vodka.

Strobe lights flash dangerously over the darkened house and the fog machine's been whirring for hours now, encasing the entirety of the first floor in thick, smoky air.

Michael Jackson's voice is loud in George's ears and the occasional yelling of someone over the music threatens to absolutely wreck the shit out of George's eardrums.

There's a couple dressed up as Mickey and Minnie sucking each other's faces off next to the front door.

George thinks it's hardly appropriate for children's Disney characters to be doing _that_ , but he supposes Mickey and Minnie are much better off than the Prince Bubblegum and Marshall Lee who had disappeared in the bathroom thirty minutes ago and have yet to exit.

Wilbur, dressed Jason Dean's dead ghostis hopelessly trying to seduce the DJ into letting him pick the next song while Alex, dressed as student debt, is getting smothered in drunk kisses by his boyfriends. 

Once again, _(Jesus_ , he was _really_ making a habit of doing this) George is left to his own devices in a public gathering, drinking copious amounts of alcohol and scoping out the crowd to take his pick of which guy was going to be his halloween company.

He's busy taking a particular liking to staring at some blond dressed in a costume George can't quite pin down when someone slides up on the area of wall next to him.

George turns to see who's squeezed themselves at his side and the moment he registers who it is, the blond in the obscure costume is entirely forgotten.

Dream raises a brow at his shocked expression, green eyes dark in the light as he eyes George up and down.

"What are you meant to be?" 

There's a small slur to his voice when he asks the question, a telltale sign of Dream that immediately informs George of the taller man's tipsiness, and while there's a bit of cautious tension in his words, but the alcohol eases it by a sizable amount.

Still, though. It's a bit odd.

George frowns, looking down at his hoodie and jeans.

He takes a pair of cat-ear headbands from his hoodie pocket and puts in on with a bored sigh and shrugs.

"Catboy," George says. 

Dream laughs, freely and loudly, and his unguarded grin definitely has something to do with the vodka punch filled solo cup held by his freckled hand, and it's not the usual Dream George is familiar with, but George adores his laugh anyway. 

He can't remember when Dream last laughed like that sober. It makes George feel sadder than it should, knowing the only time a sense of normalcy is easy to establish is when Dream's under the influence.

He pushes away the sadness and tries to enjoy the brief time he has left with scraps of normality with Dream. 

Conversationally, George asks, "And what are _you_ meant to be?"

Dream, just like George, wears his regular clothes as well.

Dream smiles like he's telling as secret as he beckons George closer and whispers, "I'm not wearing a costume. But there are a ton of blond white guys so people just assume I'm one of them." 

George laughs. It's not really that funny. "You're kidding."

"Don't tell anyone," Dream returns. 

George can almost pretend, drunk and flushed, that they'd never split up at all. He thinks it's a bit immoral, pretending like that. 

But Dream catches George's conflicted stare and raises a small brow, smirk gently becoming something more controlled, something that looks a bit more sober, and for a second, George is afraid Dream will leave again, will remember all of George's mistakes, will walk away and avoid the brunet for the rest of the night. 

But he doesn't. 

Instead, Dream looks down at his lips and hovers before he brings his gaze back to George's eyes, his pretty greens glazed with a tipsy sort of careless passion, glistening with an intimidating blaze and engulfing George in warmth the way fire licks at wood.

Licking his lips, Dream asks, "Are you as drunk as I am right now?" 

George blushes at his tone, just skirting the line between suggestive and controlled.

"I don't know," he answers quietly, willing himself not to sound as flustered as he feels. 

Dream's lazy smile stays on his freckled face, eyes narrowing just the slightest bit with evident amusement when George's words come out tentative.

"Say yes."

It's less of an order and more of a suggestion, but still, George can't resist it. 

Immediately, George obeys, whispering, "Yes." 

"Good, George." 

George's breath hitches in his throat.

He's gone, George decides. He's so fucking far gone it's _stupid_.

And if he were talking to any other person, George might have felt the slightest twinge of insecurity at the thought of being forced into submission with so few words, but it's _not_ any other person. It's Dream.

George attempts to gulp away his nervousness. "Why'd you ask?"

Dream shrugs, all too casual considering the situation, and he steps a little closer to George. 

When he eventually answers, his voice sounds velvety and smooth, leaving no room for doubt. He's brave and self-assured and demanding and George is _nothing_ beneath the intensity of his stare. 

"So I can proposition you." Dream smirks. "And I can blame asking on being drunk."

And _fuck_.

George is _so far gone._

* * *

George gains a little bit of his sobriety a little while later in the laundry room.

Through the locked door, the soundtrack to _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ plays, loud but muffled, a telltale sign that Wilbur had succeeded in his efforts to gain control over the music.

But George could give _less of a fuck_ about _Time Warp_ right about now. 

Not when he's sat on the carpeted floor, head against a washing machine, a fistful of his hair locked tight in a hard and unforgiving grip, pulling every so often and making George groan.

Not when his mouth is stuffed fucking _full_ of Dream's cock, occasionally hitting the back of his throat and forcing him to gag, warning him of the sore throat that'll hit when this is done. 

Not when the gagging of his throat forces his head back every few thrusts, banging against the aluminum of the washing machine that sounds almost like encouragement to continue, mixing with Dream's heavy breathing and George's own muffled moans and sobs to create a symphony of sounds, all obscenely sinful and holy at the same time.

His right hand digs roughly into Dream's thigh and his left hand is so very desperately trying to get himself off, sliding up and down his own dick as he fucks into it for a release, purposefully slowing down whenever he feels himself about to cum in order to prolong the pleasure for a little while longer. 

Try as he might with with denying himself release, though, George's movements get sloppy fast, and George blames it on the fact that all his Dream look-alike one night stands have all been boring and he's been _sorely_ deprived of the rough treatment he craved since the last time he fucked Dream literally fucking _eleven months ago._

Admittedly, getting back into _throating_ a guy who simply did not give a fuck whether George could breathe or not got the brunet a little more excited that it should have but he can't really blame himself for not lasting as long as he usually does when it just _feels so good_. 

George finishes onto his hand _long_ before Dream cums into his throat, and the constant ramming into George's mouth paired with the hair pulling and post-nut euphoria makes tears stream from the side of big brown eyes, and at the sight of him, George feels Dream speed up.

When the blond eventually finishes into his throat, George almost fucking chokes, and after being used open for so long, his jaw almost forgets how to close when Dream pulls out, leaving George drooling clouded white saliva. 

And they just _exist_ in that moment, in the same cramped laundry room, listening to the same muffled version of _Rose Tint My World_ from the other side of the door, recovering from the heat of the moment. 

And slowly, Dream crouches in front of George, so close their hot and rapid breaths intermingle in the little space between them. 

George is coming down from his high through his desperate, breathless panting and small coughs as Dream looks straight at him, eyes dark with something more intense than lust but less intense than love. 

At the sight of Dream, all of the drunkenness leaves George's body. 

His eyes are half-lidded and a dark green, and he's crouched in front of George just close enough for every individual freckle on the bridge of his nose is visible. Sweat forms at his brow, and his gaze has hardened, shooting sparks up George's spine just by staring.

Dream leans a little closer, lips ghosting over George's own, far enough to not be touching but close enough for the feeling to be imagined.

Quietly, Dream praises, "Forgotten just how good you were at that."

Without any real malice, George retorts with, "You'd think you'd also forgotten I need air to breathe with how I was _literally_ choking on your dick and you _still_ kept going." 

Dream scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"You're still so pretty, George," he says, and George does _not_ keen at the praise, he does _not,_ but his ears do catch on the word _still,_ like there's a deeper meaning to it. "But then you start _talking_ and suddenly, I wish I'd never pulled out from your mouth." 

He surges forward and kisses George with the same ferocity he fell in love with before George even thinks to respond, their tongues swirling together, lips going numb, teeth occasionally biting into lower lips in the same destructive motion, rough dance they can never quite quit. 

There is nothing tender about their kisses.

There's nothing warm or nurturing or caring in it. 

And _yet_ , George's heart _aches_ into the desperate movement and aches _even more_ when Dream pulls away only to begin a new attack on his jaw, slowly dipping lower until he's sucking a warm hickey onto George's neck, biting down hard in an act much too rough to be love. 

It's sloppy and imperfect and overtly aggressive (much like everything else in their history together) and George's heart throbs in his chest as Dream's tongue swirls over sensitive skin, nipping slightly around the slowly forming hickey as if _worshiping_ George, only it's not _really_ worship because nothing about the way they move in tandem is _holy_.

They don't kiss with the gentleness of whispered prayers.

They kiss like tempestuous demons in a dance of careless temptation.

They kiss like it's a sin, weary apostates getting lost in each other, hurting each other in an ostentatious cycle of burning touch and freezing stares. 

1 Peter 5:8.

George swallows down a needy moan and breathes out, "I love you."

Dream pulls away from his neck for a moment only to whisper back, "This doesn't mean I love you back."

Breathlessly, George finds himself asking, "Why not?"

Dream only shrugs. "It just doesn't." 

And before he can reply, Dream captures George's mouth with his own in a kiss so slow that it almost feels like a confession, almost feels like an "I love you, too." Almost, if not for the way his teeth sinks into George's lips and draws blood. 

Nevertheless, regardless of whether or not the kiss is an act of love or not, George allows himself to enjoy the moment and kiss back. The taste of iron in his tongue drowns out the taste of Dream. 

* * *

_**George - 11/01/20 7:49 AM**_

_i think we did something last night_

_**Dream - 11:01/20 7:52 AM**_

_we did_

_**George - 11/01/20 7:53 AM**_

_is it a thing we should talk about_

_**Dream - 11:01/20 7:53 AM**_

_no lol_

_**George** **\- 11:01/20 7:54 AM**_

_why not lmao. it was definitely something_

_**Dream - 11:01/20 7:55 AM**_

_sure it was. butit wasn't that serious_

_i only asked you because i was drunk_

_you only agreed because you were too_

_**George - 11:01/20 7:56 AM**_

_see i get that_ 👍

_but i dont really know if what we did can be so easily excused by saying 'we drank alcohol' though_

_**Dream - 11:01/20 7:57 AM**_

_thats all there was to it, george. i was drunk. you were drunk. we fucked. get over it. we don't have to talk about it because there's nothing to talk about._

_dont make it weirder than it has to be._

_**George - 11:01/20 7:59 AM**_

_alright then_ ☺

 _how often are you gonna blame having sex with me on being drunk, do you think?_ ☺

_**Dream - 11:01/20 8:00 AM**_

_do you just not want us to hook up anymore_

_**George - 11:01/20 8:01 AM**_

_maybe this is just me but_

_making me choose between communicating properly or spending time with you just doesnt seem fair_

_**Dream - 11:01/20 8:02 AM**_

_we arent "spending time together" george._

_we're giving each other blowjobs in bathrooms during parties._

_we aren't dating._

_if you're gonna be weird about that then its fine! its totally ok!_

_but i really dont want to keep going if youre just gonna keep sending me texts after every meaningless throating._

_so like. tell me lol._

_do you want to talk or do you want to keep fucking_

* * *

It would have been more in character for George to abandon the mess he'd made.

It would have been more in character for George to ignore the fact that he'd fucked up their relationship to the point of no return and just move on.

It would have been in character to forget Dream, to find another pretty blond boy to screw and start anew, to put the past in the past and continue being his dismissive, noncommittal self. 

And it would have hurt less. 

Because commitments are painful. Because attachments are painful. Because knowing he and Dream will never be the same people they were months ago and it's all thanks to him is painful.

And George doesn't want to keep hurting.

Packing everything to his name in a bag and moving far away from the pain would have hurt less. Burying his feelings and never speaking to Dream again would have hurt less.

Doing what he knew how to do best and disappearing Dream's life would have hurt less. 

It would have. 

But George is a weak, weak man.

**_George - 11/02/20 7:29 AM_**

_come over._

When George swipes his tongue into Dream's lips later in the morning, he thinks it tastes like slow defeat.

* * *

It's like their first couple months together all over again. 

They hit each other up whenever they want. They have sex with no strings attached. They're not in an established relationship. They're just hookups. Nothing more.

It's like their first couple months together all over again, except it's _not,_ really.

They hit each other up whenever they want, and usually, Dream's the one to text George. When this happens, George will drop anything he's doing to say yes, to see Dream again, to share a night together and lose himself in the fantasy of Dream still loving him.

George asks, too, sometimes.

Often when he does, Dream will leave him on read. George has learned not to expect responses when he asks to link up. George has not yet learned how to stop himself from crying when that happens.

They have sex. They don't do much else than that. 

They're not boyfriends. George is unsure if they're even friends. 

But he is forward with his desire to want to be more than just a number to dial when Dream's too lazy to charm his way onto another person's pants.

George will attempt to start a conversation sometimes, when they've calmed down enough to be able to talk. But Dream will shut him down with hard green eyes and kiss him just to shut him up.

When George presses and Dream's too spent to kiss, he rejects George's attempts at conversation outright, does it in a way that hurts, does it with frigid glares and apathetic words, and he calls it _honesty_.

George calls it painful.

They don't banter the way they used to. They don't talk the way they used to. 

It's nothing like their first months together. 

It's different, because the bruises Dream used to leave all those mistakes ago were endearing, were loving.

They were monuments, meant to showcase George's humanity. Dream left them on George's skin to tell the man _I see you._

It's different, because the bruises Dream leaves now feels like punishment, presenting all of George's flaws. The bruises Dream leaves now feels too garish, lacking meaning.

Bruises just to bruise.

It's painful. It's mean and every second of silence feels like an eternity.

But George endures it, because he loves Dream more than he hates him, and he doesn't know if it's a fact or a weakness anymore, but it's true. George loves Dream. And it's cruel. 

"I love you, and I think you're mean to me," George says sometimes, and the reply is almost always the same. 

"You haven't left yet."

Maybe he finds the destruction mesmerizing. Maybe he feels like the only way Dream will want him is if he lets himself be used.

Maybe he's just reading too much into it.

* * *

November passes by. 

George frowns, naked under the white bed sheets of his one of his friends' guestroom, a thin layer of sweat over the entirety of pale skin, his lips kissed raw and lashes wet with shed tears. 

It's Thanksgiving, and whereas most of George's friends are downstairs enjoying the no doubt mouthwatering meals and having just an enjoyable time with the people they're thankful of, George has just finished getting railed upstairs by his ex boyfriend. 

And it's funny, because while the whole getting railed thing was pretty good while it was happening, George can't help but feel something missing when it's all over and done with. 

Maybe it's the fact Dream's getting ready to leave.

"You know," George starts offhandedly, playing with the sheets as he raises his head slightly to glance at the man he'd just fucked - or, rather, _got_ fucked _by_ , "I always wondered what it would be like to be the one getting left behind after the party hookup."

Dream scoffs loudly as he pulls his pants back up, zipping up and buckling his belt.

Under the warm glow of the lamplight, he looks like a god. Tanned skin shines with drying sweat, abdomen covered with hickeys and bites, back scratched red, hair tousled and unkempt.

The sight of him makes George's breath hitch, thoughts surrendering to a helpless, almost desperate, symphony of nothing but, _Dream, Dream, Dream, Dream, Dream._

And he steals any shred of sense left in George when looks back for a sliver of a moment with green eyes full of rugged indifference before he focuses on dressing himself again.

"How's it feel like being the one getting left behind for once?" Dream prompts. 

The smugness of his tone is enough to pull George away from his (frankly, quite obscene) thoughts and deepen George's frown, and it's even _worse_ knowing he can't really say much against the statement.

The implication that Dream's the first guy to ever leave George after sex is honest, no matter _how_ embarrassing it might be for the brunet.

"Pretty shit," George mutters out, resigned, because he can't _really_ say much else. "Fuck you."

And he sighs, staring up at the shitty popcorn ceiling with a somber expression, frustrated breath braiding itself in George's voice when he admits, "I don't know what I'll do with myself once you've left. Should I get dressed? Should I just sleep here? I dunno." 

His thinking out loud elicits another scoff from Dream, and George can't help but think that this one sounds a lot more bitter. Accusatory, even. 

"You'll figure something out," the blond says unhelpfully in a way that definitely holds some fucking animosity, slipping on a shirt over his toned torso, completely covering up all the marks that serve as evidence of what had just happened.

And though he's completely dressed and without an excuse to not walk out now, Dream doesn't make a move to leave the room, instead just leaning up against the wardrobe and staring at George's laid down body with unreadable greens. 

George frowns, doubtful, meeting Dream's gaze unsteadily. He licks his lip, finding them much too dry for comfort and doesn't miss the way Dream's eyes zero in on the action.

"Will I?" George asks. 

"I did." Dream's words are slow and deliberate, and he scans George's face as he speaks. "Eventually."

Neither of them are quite sure if they're still talking about sex anymore. The air's thickened a bit, not uncomfortably so, but still noticeable.

George breaks the growing silence. He's been the only one making an attempt at conversations lately. 

"Have you lost feelings for me yet?" He questions, and he immediately regrets it when he finds his voice breaking just a _little_.

Dream lets a tense pause grow before he shrugs hesitantly. The movement is noncommittal and confusing. "I don't know." 

_That's not promising._

George perks up at the answer, and he grasps at what he misses when he sits up and asks, "Can you still say you love me?"

He's never had to worry about that changing before. Not when he asked.

Never had to face his flaws in a way that hurt so much. Was this it? This is how he dies? With the sky falling down on him, with his legs too shaky to stand and run? 

Dream shakes his head, somber. "No."

He's lost him. He'd gone and fucked it all up and now he's lost him.

 _Fuck_. 

The growing sting in George's chest threatens to choke him out of the air in his lungs, threatens to fill his eyes with bright white regret, threatens to leave him breathless and blinded and lacking of everything that he used to be. 

_What was it?_ George questions himself. _What was the last straw? What did he do that made Dream stop loving him? What-_

Shakily, George sits forward and leans, brown eyes wide and full of barely controlled panic as he _attempts_ , one last time, "Why not?"

And Dream shakes his head again, more forcefully, ripping his gaze from George's eyes in a movement that almost indicates guilt, and it doesn't make sense because why would there be any _guilt_?

"I just can't, George."

George's breathing grows quick and shallow, hands grasping onto the sheets in tight fists to ground himself, leaning forward, vulnerable and panicked and desperate, desperate, _desperate_ -

"Why not? I can _fix_ it _._ Just tell me _what_ I did, I swear I can fix it, I can be better! I can- If you'd just let me- _Dream_? Please, tell me, I- I need you -"

It feels like betrayal, feels like anguish, feels like heartbreak, feels like breaking, feels like being _small and fragile and everything everyone has always seen him as._

Dream's figure grows blurry through the tears clinging onto George's eyes, and vaguely, George is aware of how Dream's body is so unnaturally still in front of the mattress, like he's using up all his energy in keeping himself glued to where he is, back against the wardrobe, looking at George. 

And while George knows deep down that every shred of his dignity's already been lost the moment he started begging for Dream to say "I love you," he's aware enough to act like he still has a sense of it, sniffling and roughly rubbing out the tears. 

And the clarity of Dream's face when there are no tears left to blur it makes George wish he'd never wiped them in the first place. 

Because Dream's face holds no anger or animosity or even sadness. Instead, what replaces those is one emotion, clear as day and readable. 

Pity.

A foreign emotion on Dream's face. 

It startles George.

Where downturned eyebrows used to appear at every argument, there are now furrowed ones. Where eyes filled with rage used to survey George during every disagreement, soft ones substitute in their place. Where the familiar scowls and snarls used to fit so easily on Dream's lips George sees nothing but a parted frown, alien and unbecoming.

Pity. 

He looks at George the way every other man has - with careful eyes, looking at him as if he was a fragile little thing, like a single breath could break him, and George hates it _so much, it hurts._

He hates knowing how he looks _so fucking pathetic_ that _Dream_ , the man who's recklessness George fell in love with, has taken the time to _stop_ being reckless for once and be _careful_ with him, lest his glass existence crack and break.

George lets out a choked sob.. 

How the mighty have fallen. 

He wants _so badly_ to order Dream not to look at him like that, wants _so badly_ to demand Dream look at him the way he always _used_ to - full of enthusiasm and sometimes anger, but _never_ pity.

But there is no room for words in his throat as sobs continue to spill through numbed lips without permission.

And just as George moves to wipe the tears from his face again, Dream shifts from his still position.

For a moment, George almost thinks Dream's moving over to him, to wrap his arms around his pale shoulders and whisper hushed words of affirmation, to take it all back and give George what he wants.

But he only peels his back from the wardrobe and walks towards the door, further away from the man breaking down on the mattress.

And while George understands little in his sobbing state, he understands enough to know that this is the end of tonight.

As Dream leaves, he turns back sadly to say, "Happy Thanksgiving, George."

He has the decency to look sorry as the door shuts behind him.

George is alone.

And sobbing and helpless and fragile and small, George doesn't know what to do with himself.

Eventually, he falls asleep. 

It's nearly three weeks until they speak again.

* * *

_**Dream - 12/15/20 11:47 PM**_

_Hey_

_**George - 12/15/20 11:49 PM**_

_hi_

_**Dream - 12/15/20 11:49 PM**_

_Wanna come over?_

_**George - 12/15/20 11:49 PM**_

_yes_

* * *

It's a _sick_ and familiar scene.

Sweaty, sticky, tired. Laid down on Dream's bed.

This is the first time George has been back here for a while, and he finds it surreal how this room used to feel more like home that his own house ever did. In some weird, taunting way, it's almost funny. 

The decoration around the bedroom hasn't changed drastically since George last saw it, since George was able to look at the bed and call it his own, but it still feels different. 

The wardrobes and desk and bed are at the same spot they've always been but there are no longer any pictures of him and Dream together, and it's haunting to George because it feels like he'd never made an impact on Dream at all.

It feels like George's somehow imagined their entire relationship.

For a room that holds so many memories of Dream and George's time together, it's _painfully_ barren of any proof that the memories had been real at all.

No more photographs. No more extra charging cable on the left side of the bed. No more spot in the closet reserved for George's clothes. 

And perhaps the biggest change in the contents of the bedroom are the two men currently laying side by side on the bed, breathing evenly after the events of the night had passed. They don't touch. 

A year ago, George knows, they'd have held each other close.

George's head would've probably been on Dream's chest. And Dream's hand would be playing idly with George's hair. And it would be warm. And nice. And effortlessly lovely. 

But it's not a year ago.

And they may be on the same bed, but they're nowhere near touching. Neither of them really plan on moving closer. 

They've been staring at the ceiling for a while.

The air in between them grows cold now that they're no longer in the heat of the moment and the silence grows louder now that there are no longer moans and heavy breaths and choked sobs to fill the awkward space. 

Discomfort grows.

George swallows nervously, and with a throat strained from both being choked and being fucked earlier in the night, he asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

Another silence appears when Dream doesn't answer.

George almost thinks the other man had fallen asleep, but when he turns his head to look, Dream's eyes are open and as awake as they can possibly be, staring up at the popcorn ceiling with a hallow expression.

"Dream?" George attempts.

Dream hums.

"You can stay," he says. George thinks it sounds more like _s_ _tay_ , but he doesn't bring it up for fear he's just projecting.

He just nods mechanically.

"Okay."

He doesn't get up. There's quiet again.

And it stretches.

And stretches.

And stretches until it's near unbearable to George, who's used to loud noise, used to air that isn't still. Eventually, when the silence grows into something _so_ intolerable, George is forced to break it for the sake of his own sanity.

"I'm sorry about Thanksgiving," he apologizes after a sharp intake of breath.

The right side of the bed shifts, and this time, Dream's response comes a bit easier, lacking it's usual hostility and making way for an odd but welcome comforting reassurance. 

"It's fine," he pardons, sounding almost automated when he says it, like he's still debating to himself whether it was fine or not at all. Like he hasn't quite made up his mind about it.

George debates taking it. He debates leaving it at that.

But it feels like a cop out. It's a little bit funny, George thinks, how he's managed to grow a conscience. Responsibility doesn't fit him, he thinks, but still, he tries. 

"It's not, though," George mumbles.

Dream doesn't respond.

Just keeps staring up at the ceiling and hums dismissively. It's a bit infuriating, because the one time George _wants_ him to be angry, he isn't. 

Insistent, George continues.

"I really... went fucking psycho on you." He laughs dryly. "I was upset. And I missed you. And you said you didn't love me anymore, and that kind of set me off." 

Dream nods, the most reserved George has ever seen him. "I know."

"I'm not making an excuse or anything," the brunet promises, and he sounds like a criminal denying committing a crime they were never even questioned for. "I'm just trying to explain it."

Again, "I know."

Guilt gnaws at George with every monotonous response. 

"I'm just saying. I made it sound like you had to that night but... you don't have to say you love me. I don't want to guilt you into saying anything. I was just... really fucking _desperate_. And I love you, but I don't want to make you think you have to lie about how you feel just to make me stop crying or anything."

For the hundredth fucking time, "I know."

George nods timidly. 

A hush falls over them again.

Surprisingly, this time, it's broken by Dream.

His voice flat, eyes awake but void, his breathing even next to George's body, Dream frowns.

"I don't think I can ever tell you I love you again." 

Heartbreak is realizing your chest has caved in, your ribs have punctured your heart, and there's a cavity where your lungs used to lay. 

Being better is ignoring every thought in your head telling you to lash out and demand what you want until you've got it. Being better is acknowledging heartbreak and accepting it rather than acting out with it.

This is being better.

"Okay, Dream."

This is choosing to be better.

"No," the blond says firmly, and he turns his head so he's facing George's body. A spark of his usual, idiosyncratic aggression appears in his tone when he orders rather than requests, "Ask me why."

George really doesn't want to be told about the unlovable things about himself. (He already knows.) 

But he can never really deny Dream.

Hesitantly, George pushes aside the heartbreak that threatens to ruin him from the inside, and he obeys. "Why?"

"Because you don't want me to."

Confusion overtakes crippling sorrow.

"What?"

Softly, slowly, Dream repeats, "You don't want me to say I love you."

George furrows up his eyebrows, staring back at Dream blankly. "Yes, I do. You know I do."

Dream shakes his head.

"You don't." He lets out a pained breath of forced amusement. "You think you do, but you don't."

Suddenly defensive, George frowns. "You don't _know_ what I want." It comes out angrier than it's meant to, and George apologizes with a sheepish, "Sorry, sorry." 

"No, no you're right, I don't know for sure," Dream concedes, shrugging a bit. "But it's not fair for you to tell me you want me back when you really don't."

"I do, though. I love you."

It's him trying to be honest.

It's the truest thing he's ever known, and now Dream's telling him it's a lie, and George doesn't know enough about love to be completely sure of himself.

Dream doesn't let out. He smiles, sadly, tiredly.

"You don't love me, Georgie." Dream chuckles out without humor, and the nickname he used to use so tenderly rubs salt on the slowly widening gash of the skin over George's heart. "You like the idea of me loving you. You the idea of us."

"What's wrong with that?" George challenges. His voice quivers.

"Nothing." And Dream lets a pause simmer in the cool air hanging over them before he speaks again. "It's just. When you get the things you want, you get bored. Of us. That's why we broke up, wasn't it?"

George stays quiet, partly because he doesn't have an answer and partly because Dream's intense stare refuses to allow him air to breathe. Dream frowns. Disappointment graces his face at silence, and he pushes on. 

"You don't want me to say I love you, George. The moment I do, you'll go back to fucking things up. It's what you do. You crave instability. What we had was bad. And you want it back because that's what you like. That's what you're into, not me. Not _us_."

George frowns.

"It wasn't perfect," he admits.

And Dream shakes his head in agreement, sighing.

"You didn't want it to be."

Despite the calmness of Dream's tone, it's a sharp accusation. 

One that pierces through the papery thin skin of George's chest and punctures right where his heart is, and as painful as it is, George finds he feels more pain in knowing he's too uncertain of what love really is to be able to tell Dream otherwise, to be able to open his mouth and say, _You're wrong. That's not true. That's not who I am._

Did he even really know what love was? 

_Yes_ , a voice in his head insists. _Yes. He learned love from Dream._

But instead of finding solace in brief certainty, George is met with a worse question, ringing and repeating in his head until it's the only thing he can hear. 

_Why do I hurt the things I love?_

Slowly, because George can do nothing else, he moves closer to Dream, watchful of the other man's reaction, and when the blond doesn't move away, George is bold enough to shift closer and closer until his head rests comfortably on Dream's chest, his hair tickling Dream's chin, his arm wrapping around Dream's torso in a weird hug, meant to comfort himself than anything else. 

Dream doesn't stop him. But he doesn't move to hold George either.

He is still as George melts onto him, still as George softly breathes on his chest. Still. 

George wants nothing more than for Dream to move, for Dream to hold him close and whisper quiet reassurance, hushed support. When he receives neither, he clings ever tighter. 

Despite warm bodies pressed together, the room feels colder than it's ever been. And maybe it's because Winter's starting soon, or because George just runs cold, but either way, the chill air makes the silence feel endless. 

"Do you think we had a chance?" George whispers after a moment, and the warmth of his breath makes Dream's breath hitch for a second.

And Dream's chest continues to rise and falls softly beneath George, steady and stable, and if the paler man presses his head against Dream's ribs hard enough, he can almost isolate the rhythmic beating of his heart. 

"Maybe." George is glad to hear Dream's voice harboring the same amount of nostalgia in it as his own. "Doesn't matter now anymore." 

George closes his eyes, tries to pretend the reminder than they're done doesn't cut as deep as he does, and he relinquishes himself to the exhaustion that's been pawing at him. 

"I'm tired," he says. It's the one thing he's sure of. 

Dream hums. "Go to sleep. I'll try not to move much."

Softly, in lieu of a goodnight, George presses a kiss onto Dream's chest. "I love you. I know I do. I'll be better."

Dream's breath catches. And just as George slips away onto the clutches of sleep, he swears he hears a hushed, "I don't think we can be better."

He's much too tired to argue. 

* * *

George drives back to his own house the next morning.

He collapses onto his painfully empty bed, and for a moment, he just lays there. Just lays there, on top of the cold covers. He thinks his heart is missing. And maybe his brain's gone too.

He looks at the ceiling. 

No thoughts in his head. No fight left in himself. No pulse.

Alone and unloved and unsure of what it means to even really love anyone. 

Lays there.

He wills the world to stop turning. He glares angrily at the clock on the wall, willing it to stop ticking. His efforts are futile, but still, he tries. And he keeps trying until his head hurts and he can't anymore.

And when that happens, George closes his eyes and he _sobs_.

George is not a good person.

He doesn't go out of his way to help people. He doesn't prioritize the emotions of other people over his own personal pleasure. He doesn't do any of the things good people do.

George is not a good person.

He likes to pick arguments for no good reason. He likes knowing he occupies space in the minds of the people he's abandoned, he's left broken hearted and sad. He likes leaving relationships the moment he senses discomfort in search of something newer without care for his partner.

George is not a good person.

Lately, he's been trying his hardest to become one.

And last night, Dream told him he couldn't.

* * *

It's two days before Christmas and the glass door to the backyard is sliding open. The sound of the party within spills out before disappearing again when the door is closed. 

"Will there ever be a Christmas party we don't spend outside in the cold?"

Dream walks over to George with two bottles of beer in hand.

He slots himself down to a criss-crossed position beside George and hands one bottle (the room temperature one, because George is delicate and he doesn't like the sting of cold drinks on his tongue) to the man who'd been out in the cold longer than himself. 

Coincidentally, he's wearing his green hoodie from the first time they'd ever met, alI those lifetimes ago, when things had been so different.

When they were strangers even when they weren't, when George had been so blissfully unaware of his own flaws. 

George takes the bottle thankfully. Their fingers don't brush.

He's sat with his legs to his chest, prominent cheekbone digging into his knees as he stares at Dream beside him, and it's not the most comfortable position to be sat in but it feels the most safe, the most like him.

Sat like this, George is taking up as little space as possible, sitting pretty and in a docile position. Like how he's always been, like how he always should have been.

 _Pliant_ , George thinks. _And fragile. And gentle_.

Like some manic pixie dream boy, meant to exist to be used and romanticized and adored by someone who will never really know who he is. 

He thinks it's actually kind of funny. He's become the thing he always promised he wouldn't, become the thing Dream was always telling him he wasn't. He wonders if Dream finds it funny, too.

The night is cold and the scene is familiar and Dream's sat next to him expecting a reply, but George can only offer a small sigh.

"S'pose not," George answers weakly. He takes a swig from his bottle and smiles, sorrowful. "But I think we've had much worse Christmas parties."

George doesn't need to be able to read minds to know Dream's thinking about their last Christmas party meeting. 

Being told he was hated more than he was loved. 

Being threatened to be hurt by the very same hands that offered George safety and love once upon a time. Being left alone in the cold, undeserving and broken down.

Dream doesn't say else against George's statement, and George isn't sure whether or not he's saddened by the lack of reply or not at all.

He takes another drink. This time, Dream drinks with him.

It takes a while before either of them talks again.

"I don't think I'm really in the mood tonight," George breathes out, gaze averted and looking straight up at the sky.

There are no stars out. It's cloudy and dim, and even if it wasn't, the light pollution this far into the city wouldn't allow the sight of stars anyway. Still, he stares. Maybe it's hope. He doesn't know.

George's breath is white against the cold December air when he apologizes with a hallow, "Sorry."

And he swallows thickly before forcing out a snort adding, "There's a sweet guy inside, though. He's cute, brunet. Your type. You can leave me alone now."

From the sides of his wide brown eyes, George can see a blurry Dream staring right at him.

He looks as unreadable as always, signs of something passionate underneath all his mystery, signs of fire behind the warmth he exudes.

Dream falters a bit, and maybe, if George were in a better mood, in a mood more like himself, he'd feel satisfaction rubbing at him at the reaction he pulls out of Dream, but he's not in a better mood and all he feels is sickening sorrow.

"I don't only talk to you for sex," Dream says, voice defensive and lips in a frown so tight, George has to refrain himself from telling the other man to loosen up.

When he finally processes Dream's denial, though, George can't help the scoff that escapes his throat.

"You do," George mutters, and he smiles sadly onto his bottle. "It's cool, though. I don't mind it."

He does. More than he'd like to admit, he does.

He minds the way they rarely ever talk, and when they do, there's an implied necessity for something more than just a domestic conversation.

He minds the way everything becomes awkward between them the second their meaningless fuck is over, minds the way the only time they can keep a conversation going these days is when Dream wants a good lay.

And he misses the days when he didn't have to bargain his body to Dream in exchange for a conversation.

He minds.

But Dream wouldn't want to know that.

So he stays quiet about what he wants, stays quiet about what he minds. 

As if in an act specifically designed to torture George, Dream repeats in a voice more self assured and firm, "I don't only talk to you for sex, George."

George keeps staring blankly at the sky, watching the clouds shift, hoping to see at least one star, a hint of a constellation. There are none. The universe is cruel. 

"Why'd you come out here, Dream?" George asks. There's a lot less fight in his voice. "I don't think you came here just to _talk_."

George can't help the sharpness of his tone that seeps into the stresses of his words. 

Dream purses his lips. A pause accumulates.

It's enough of an answer for George.

Resigned, exhausted, and painfully apathetic, George breathes out a soft, humorless laugh. He doesn't know why he keeps hoping. 

"Go back inside, Dream." He waves a careless hand, tips of his fingers a bright pink from the cold. "Try to get lucky with some other warm mouth. I don't feel like it right now."

Stubbornly, Dream doesn't move.

He stays planted on the space next to George, eyebrows furrowed in an odd cross of guilt and offense and maybe even a little bit of irritation at George's words. 

And he parts his lips and asks, timid, "Are you sad?"

George chuckles loudly, caught off guard by the question, working to slowly recover from the surprise as he asks, "What?"

Slowly, with sincerity and confidence, Dream repeats, "Are you sad?" 

This time, George barks out a laugh, void of any real amusement.

He can't stop himself from sounding a bit defensive when he scoffs, "You don't have to pretend like you care. Don't feel obligated to stay out here just because you like fucking me, or something."

When George musters up enough courage to turn his head from the stars to Dream, he sees the blond so obviously biting back a response. He glares lightly at George.

"Stop telling me to go inside, George."

"Go inside." 

Dream barely contains a groan.

"George, _s_ hut _up_ ," he orders, patience wearing thin, which is hardly the way you should talk to someone who's clearly upset, but George finds that he's _okay_ with the roughness.

It's them. It's cruel and it lacks the love of healthier relationships, but it's them, and in that way, it is comforting. 

Or maybe George just needs to stop romanticizing violence. 

Either way, George is silent as Dream continues, "Even _if_ I came out here for sex - which, yes, okay, _fine_ , I _did_ \- I'll stay if I want to. And I want to."

His eyes are sharp with visible annoyance, his lips thin and kept in a frown that so clearly wants to be a snarl. He's mad. He always is. But he (attempts to) keeps himself contained for George. 

George thinks it's unfairly pretty, how easily ticked off Dream gets. And he thinks it's unfair how he (someone so _frail)_ still thinks Dream (someone so _destructive)_ could be so beautiful.

It's like he was born only to exist and fall in love with his own demise. It's like he was made to be torn apart.

It's sick and George _wants_ to be angry at his attraction to people who threaten to break him in all his fragility, but he finds that he can't. 

It's too pretty. Pretty in the way bruises are pretty. Thrilling in the way teeth sink into papery skin, just above the jugular. Not biting down, but sharp enough to remind George that they could at any moment and are just choosing not to. Intimate. Slow and painful but worth it.

It's perfect. It's messy but it's perfect. George can't bring himself to hate it. 

So instead of hating it, George frowns somberly and asks, "Why do you hate me so much?"

Dream looks at him oddly, with a face full of disbelief and quiet shock. It's like the thought of George thinking he's hated has never even crossed his mind.

With a confused voice, Dream responds with a quick, "I don't hate you."

It sounds more like, _W_ _hy do you think I hate you?_ And _oh_ , to be so oblivious. Oh, to be so oblivious.

George sighs, frustration and bitterness collecting in the vapor of his breath in twisted display of beauty. 

"I might have believed you before you, y'know, told me I didn't know how to fall in love with someone."

Dream's gaze softens. There's regret in his eyes.

"I can't talk that back," he says, and it would have been less painful if he'd just stabbed George and left him to bleed in the frigid Winter ground. 

"You can," George attempts. 

"You want me to lie about what I think?"

George groans. "I want you to take a moment to read the room and realize that I don't _want_ you here." 

"Why not?"

"Because you're so _angry_ all the time, Dream." 

George peels his eyes from the sky and buries his head in his hands. The cold of his palms shocks the skin on his face. It's refreshing if not a little painful with it's sting. It encourages him to go on.

"You're so _mean._ "

He grasps at the words floating around his head, cringes at his awareness of the fact he sounds like a petulant child throwing some spoiled tantrum, and keeps speaking, because he's started now, and he can't bring himself to stop.

"Every time we speak, I leave the conversation feeling like I need to cry. And I _know_ I deserve a lot of it because, _yes,_ I fucked up. And I ruined _everything_ and _maybe_ , if I weren't so _fucked_ , maybe we'd still be okay."

George falters.

He takes a moment to thank himself for hiding his face in his hands because he can feel the familiar prick in his eyes that warns him of tears and if Dream saw the tears forming, he might just die on the spot. 

_"I fucked up,"_ George admits heavily, because it's not an easy admission to force out of one's throat. 

"But so did you, didn't you? Reacting the way you did? Blowing up instead of helping me? It wasn't _just_ my fault?"

George lets himself raise his head from his cold hands and when he stares at Dream's, the taller man's lips are pursed in a way that suggests raw, unfiltered guilt and confusion. 

"I'm trying to be better, Dream. I'm trying to be good. But you can't keep _using_ that _against_ me."

Tears spill over helpless lashes, mesmerizing display of both weakness and strength. When George hiccups, the world breathes with him, and when he sniffles, Dream flinches, as if the sound physically hurts him. 

"You can't keep putting me in situations that makes being a good person hard for me to do and then telling me it's because I'm _bad_." 

George, a guilty sinner, stares at guilty sinner, and everything else ceases to exist. 

There is just Dream, looking at him with contrite hanging heavily on blond lashes, lips thinned to a tight line, green eyes occasionally shifting to the side as if reading imaginary words around George to avoid the wide, brown eyes that look to him with expectancy.

Dream opens his mouth to speak, seems to think better of it, and closes his mouth again.

And there's a small pause before he attempts again. 

"I'm sorry I'm so angry," Dream says, and George thinks it's the first apology the man's ever said to him. "I don't know how else to be."

George wants to stay angry. He wants to stay upset.

He wants to look at Dream with cold, apathetic eyes, and he wants to be unforgiving and merciless.

But Dream looks at him with a face painted with every color of painful sincerity and George crumbles under the intensity of it all.

Dream is a storm to George's house of cards, hurricane to work of art, offering apologies that would fall short to anyone else, would seem insincere to anyone who wasn't George.

Dream looks at him with pleading eyes and lips pressed together tightly, expectant.

And George is done for.

Every single wall he's ever built to protect himself comes crumbling down under strong green gaze, and the man those eyes belong to doesn't even know it.

"It's okay," George accepts with a choked sob. It shouldn't be. "It's just how we are, isn't it?"

He lets his body relax, lets himself lean to the side until his shoulder is pressed against Dream's, wiping his tears roughly with the cuffs of his jacket.

He thinks he feels Dream lean against him, too. 

"You're angry. You don't know how to be anything else. And me?" A deep exhale that summons clouds of vapor that fog up their vision. "I don't know how love things without hurting them." 

The sit together in solemn silence, shoulders against shoulders, thighs against thighs, and the night wind whispers sweetly against George's face, pricking at his exposed skin with frozen kisses.

"Flawed," Dream whispers after a while, just loud enough so George can barely hear.

And George nods slightly, pressing himself closer to Dream's warm body as he does.

"Flawed," he repeats quietly under his breath in agreement. "We hurt each other."

"We don't mean to."

"But we do."

A gust of cold air blows over them, and George stiffens, pushing himself closer to Dream until Dream eventually places a hand around the smaller man.

The movement comes easily. Warmth blossoms in George's chest when it dawns on him that, despite the fact this is the first time in _nearly a year now_ where they've touched each other in a way that didn't feel sexual, there's a part of him and Dream that _remembers_ how to do it.

There's a part of them that knows how it used to be.

And this is how it used to be.

Touching just to touch. Touching for warmth and not sexual gratification. Getting lost in each other in a way that feels oddly like being found. This is how it used to be.

This is what George has missed.

His tears have dried now, and they're both thankful for that, but George's face feels colder.

That's his excuse for sitting up straighter to nuzzle his face at the side of Dream's neck, anyway. That's his excuse for keeping his head there.

He doesn't have an excuse for the chaste kiss he leaves at Dream's neck.

But he suspects Dream doesn't have an excuse for the way he leans into the kiss, frowning when George doesn't do it again.

Gently, Dream raises the arm around George, hand slowly making its way to George's head where his fingers comb easily through dark brown hair, massaging George's scalp sweetly, like they were made to do exactly that. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" Dream mumbles.

With a small nod and another kiss to the jaw, George beckons for Dream to continue. 

Quietly, hesitantly, "I don't want to be nice to you because I'm scared you won't like it. And I don't want to tell you I love you because I'm scared you'll leave when I do."

Lips, pink in the night, quirk up in a gentle smile, dark brown eyes softening in the frame of lashes, still stuck together with dried tears. Warm.

"Can I tell _you_ a secret?" George returns, losing himself in the moment, allowing the love in his chest warm his skin red, inundated with the thought of them, together, loving limitlessly.

Dream chuckles breathlessly, a sound that makes George blush.

"Go ahead," he laughs out, shoulders moving with his laugh, bouncing George lightly with it. 

George licks his lips. "I don't think I could keep myself away from you if I tried."

And they will have to part, later into the night, George knows.

They will have to stand from their seated leans against each other once the party inside has finished and everyone starts going back to their homes. 

Inevitably, the night will end with them going to their separate homes in their separate rides and sleeping on their own separate beds.

But it's okay. 

Because in the moment, they are together and happy and sweet, and as temporary as tonight may be, George finds comfort in the fact that after tonight, the promise of next time sounds _even sweeter_. 

So George does not mourn. He does not crumple in sorrow, awaiting the end.

He just keeps breathing onto Dream's neck and allows himself to enjoy the fingers digging slightly onto his scalp, allows himself to grace Dream's exposed skin with light kisses, allows himself tonight's normalcy. 

"It's hard for me to trust you," Dream admits softly, his voice gruff. "I don't want to let myself love you only for you to get bored of me again. But I can't stay away from you."

George hums. He frowns a bit, a small part of him acknowledging how fucked they really were, how terrible they made each other feel.

"You scare me," he whispers, and Dream tenses. George blinks. "Not like that. I'm not scared you'll hurt me. Don't worry about that."

Dream shifts a bit. "How do I scare you, then?"

George shrugs, exhaling. "You make me wanna slow down. You make me want to put effort into being a good person." George's eyes flutter closed, embracing change. "You make me want to stay. And I've never done that before."

A soft silence blankets over the two. It's comforting and sweet and it's a nice change, to just be in each other's presence, enjoying the warmth of each other's bodies, letting the comfortable pause stretch nicely before Dream talks again.

"I think we could be better if we tried," he says. "If we tried being sweet."

George lets himself indulge the idea. He looks up at Dream and smiles. 

* * *

It's New Years, and tonight there is no party. 

Tonight, Dream hovers over George with a flushed complexion, a contained and gentle roughness in his grip around George's wrist, pinned down above his head and onto the mattress. 

George's pupils are blown wide as they stare up at Dream with nothing but adoration and love. His hips are bruised with Dream's fingerprints and his legs wrap around Dream's waist almost possessively. A rosy blush starts at his chest and infects it's way up until George's face is a lovely shade of red that makes Dream's grip around his wrists tighten. 

Dream moves in one languid motion into George and George closes his eyes shut as streaks of pleasure spike up all around, painting the backs of his eyelids with the brightest colors. 

They breathe like there's not enough air, pant against each other like their hearts are too big and there's not enough room for lungs in their chests.

And Dream lets go of George's wrists to bring his hand to George's face, cupping rosy cheeks in an angle that places his thumb over George's swollen lips.

As if second nature, George squeezes his eyes tighter with Dream's careful movement and slowly opens his mouth, allowing Dream sweet permission to the finger in through his lips and onto his tongue. 

"Open your eyes," Dream breathes leaning forwards, still thrusting, and with tongue still swirling around Dream's thumb, George obeys. 

Tonight is not the night to disobey. Tonight, they are sweet to each other. To make up for the nights they weren't, to make up for the nights they wish they could have been. 

When George opens his eyes, the first thing he thinks of is _I love you._

Because Dream is above him, godlike, eyes narrowed and lips parted in gentle focus, regarding George with a stare that manages to be gentle without being suffocating.

He's got purple kisses over his neck and chest that serve as reminders of how tonight started and little indents over his collarbones at the shape of George's canines. 

Sweat clings on his freckled skin like dew drops on grass, on leaves, on sprouted flowers, and when George's pale legs tighten around his waist, he smirks down at George with passion and reverence that feels like it's worship. 

They're _not_ worshiper and god, though, because that implies one is higher than the other. 

No, George thinks.

He thinks they're more like desperate creatures, seeking salvation in each other. Desperate creatures, equal in the way they love, equal in the way they stand. They can't get enough of each other.

Dream looks down at George and smiles before pulling back his thumb from George's mouth and pushing into the other man in an angle way that makes him whimper and writhe beneath Dream, wanting more, warmth flooding his body until it becomes the type of heat that makes him pant and exclaim obscenities.

" _Dream_ ," George spits out with desperation, chest rising and falling rapidly as Dream continues at the pace. "Dream, _please,_ please, please - _fuck, please_ let me cum - _Dream_ please-"

And Dream shushes him with a kiss before he pulls away and whispers, "You don't have to beg, baby."

George keens at the tenderness of his voice, lets out a needy and thankful whine, and cums, covering both his and Dream's stomachs with warmth, breathing heavily and writhing under Dream as the other man keeps moving, quick and careful, slowly becoming sloppier until he finishes inside of George.

He stays with his cock buried in George for a few moments more until he finally pulls out.

And for the first time in a while, Dream does not distance himself from George as soon as he finishes.

Instead, he crawls into the spot on the mattress next to George and fits himself next to his breathless partner. 

For the first time in a while, Dream pulls George closer and holds him, skin to skin, breath on breath, sweat against sweat. He's careful not to rub against George too forcefully, mindful of overstimulation, and it's sweet.

For the first time in a while, they feel like lovers again. For the first time in a while, they are sweet. 

George tucks himself closer to Dream's chest. He smiles when Dream holds him tighter.

It feels protective just as much as it feels possessive. It feels right, the perfect balance between safety and danger, between love and something a little rougher than love.

George feels content.

"Is this it?" He whispers softly against Dream's skin, fingers grazing over freckled collar, admiring the closeness of their bodies with gentle brown eyes. "Are we better?" 

Dream lays a kiss on the top of George's head. "I think this is us trying." 

"Is it what you want?" George asks, and Dream nods.

"It's feels good."

George hums. Softly, because it's not an answer to the question he asked, he repeats, "Is it what you want?"

Dream gives him a lighthearted eye roll at his persistence and laughs. His voice is deep, and George can feel soft vibrations from where he's tucked against Dream. It's comforting, something to look for.

"I want us to stay us," he says with a small, hopeful chuckle that sends a small thrill up George's spine, and Dream laughs again when George squirms.

In the same, quiet voice, Dream continues, "I don't want us to pretend like we're gentle."

George snorts at the idea.

"Be realistic," he jokes, finding a sense of accomplishment when Dream chuckles in amusement. "We couldn't pretend if we tried."

"Then yeah," Dream grins. "I want this. I want you."

"Have me." It sounds breathless, it sounds desperate, and it is. "You can have me. Take anything you want. I'll let you."

Green eyes crinkle at the sides in a small, satisfied smile, all for George. "You have me, too, you know?" 

"I do?" 

"Yes. All of me. You have it. You've always had it."

"Always?" 

Dream nods. "Always."

A pause, comfortable and warm and full of fond intimacy. 

Softly, George tilts his head as much as the mattress beneath him lets him, big brown eyes looking at Dream with eyes, inundated with tender humanity, lips slightly parted, pale skin flushed.

"Tell me you love me," George says, and it's more of a request than a command, but with the way Dream leans towards him nods, it might as well be one.

Dream hesitates. Shyly, he whispers, "Don't you know already?"

And George does, he _does_. And he's so thankful for that. But still, maybe he's a bit self indulgent or selfish when he responds with an insistent, "I want to hear you say it."

"You won't leave?" Dream asks.

A shake of George's head, a sigh of relief, and then finally, _finally_ , "I love you, George. Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?"

* * *

They fall into routine the way they always find a way to fall against each other, loving and sweet and rough with adoration and little bits of possessiveness.

They fall into a bliss much more tender than orgasms in bathrooms of parties, into kisses that feel more intimate than choked sobs in someone's guest room, into companionship that's wholesome as it is a little bit toxic. 

It feels like ecstasy, and George can't get enough of it.

Eventually, things begin to tame out.

Most nights they spend talking, and a lot of the time, they find each other revisiting old memories. Some nights, they'll talk about the months they spent away from the other.

During those nights, Dream and George will curl into each other for comfort, and they'll both try to understand their past mistakes. They apologize as best as they can, but there's bits and pieces of them that haven't yet learned how to stop glamorizing their toxicity.

That's okay, they think. As long as they're trying, George reckons it's okay to take baby steps. They won't change overnight, and it's not pessimistic. It's just the truth.

And it's not like this is the first time they've had to get used to being lovers more than fuck buddies, but George can't help but notice the differences between this time and last time.

He tries to learn, and for the most part, he can proudly say that he does.

Like last time, George finds himself wanting to resist the tender pull of Dream, finds himself wanting to leave before he can let himself be more vulnerable than he already is, finds himself itching uncomfortably at the idea of being in one place for too long.

Unlike last time, George understands that some things are worth facing the uncomfortable truths for. Dream is something worth facing the uncomfortable truths for.

There are lots of uncomfortable truths they have to face to try to be better. George faces his flaws. Dream faces his as well. And it's messy and awkward and sloppy, but they're willing to put in the effort.

So when the nights get too angry, when the days pass with more distance between them, when unease grows, George lets himself cuddle up against Dream, breaking bad habits of creating distance when uncertainty arose, and he hesitantly lets himself love and be loved by Dream. 

Letting himself love Dream feels intense, George decides. Being loved by Dream? It made George's insides _burn_.

Dream loves passionately. George loves with hesitance.

And they're two sides of the same fucked up coin, but maybe that's the appeal to it. They're made for each other.

Dream likes George's light touches, brushing kisses, delicate tears. He likes George's quiet compliance, likes George's quick wit, likes how easily he can make the man into a puddle of subservience with brief touches and little words.

And George, he likes the way Dream's touch burns purple marks onto the canvas of his skin, likes to beg, likes to let himself be pushed around to prove just how much he can take. 

They're explosive, both strong and stubborn personalities in their own right with two different core emotions that compliment each other so well, it's a crime. 

And sometimes they hate each other for the same reasons they love.

For now, it's the morning, and Dream stands in front of the stove as George sits patiently at the breakfast bar, his head perched on his hands, and watches the taller man cook breakfast for the both of them, back turned to George.

He's humming something under his breath, and when George strains his ears to catch some of the melody, he can almost swear the tune Dream's humming is the same to the song George was listening to last night. 

It's heartwarming, if not a bit strange, and George thinks he'll never really get used to this - get used to Dream. It's somewhat disorienting, if he's honest, and he's trying to be. 

"I think it's a little unreal," George says conversationally, his voice honeyed and a small smile to his lips.

Dream glances back at him with a grin before rolling his eyes and getting back to the pan. "What's unreal?"

George shrugs.

"Us," he says, and there's fondness in his tone when he says it, a softness to his voice at the sound. _Us_. What a beautiful word. "It's unreal. Being you and me, existing in the same space."

Dream doesn't turn back this time, but his chuckle carries to George, betraying his amusement at George's wonderment for their relationship without showing his face. 

"What's so unreal about us being together?" Dream continues to prompt, his grin audible in the way he speaks, in his syllables, in the way he lets the words leave his lips. 

Again, George shrugs.

"I never imagined this for myself," he answers honestly, a little shyly, and he embraces the vulnerability in his tone. 

This time, Dream turns the stove on low heat and moves so he's facing George, sides of his lips quirked up in a soft smile sporting a softer challenge. Under Dream's tender stare, George can't help but let out a flustered laugh.

With playful encouragement, Dream asks, " 'This' being?"

George rolls his eyes.

"Comfort, I suppose. Being familiar with something so lovely, someone so lovely." George lets out a quiet chuckle. "That's you, by the way. I love you."

Saying "I love you" has stopped hurting his throat.

Dream rolls his eyes, and he remarks, "You're an idiot," but he sports a satisfied smirk on his lips that makes it sound more like, _I love you, too._

The moment is tender in the way George has only just begun to let himself have, domestic in the way Dream is just learning to embrace again, and it's somewhat unsteady, relying heavily on trial and error, but it's perfect in the way they're willing to hug each other through the discomfort just to be able to kiss again when they're better. 

The smell of breakfast cooking steadily on the stove behind Dream works with the loving stares they send each other to create an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy they only show to each other and no one else.

They've managed to piece back their jagged pieces and create a safe space for just them, just George and Dream, and realistically, they both know that realistically, they'll crack again. Realistically, they won't fix all of their flaws just by being around each other again. 

But Dream flashes George a bright grin that makes him giggle, and George decides they don't _have_ to be the greatest versions of themselves all the time to be good people.

For now, it's enough for George to be sat on the breakfast bar as Dream serves him his first meal of the day.

For now, it's enough for Dream to walk around the counter and stand next to George, leaving a firm, loving kiss on the side of George's lips.

For now, they are in love and enough and working to be better. 

Breakfast sits nearly forgotten on the counter as Dream loops a hand around George's waist and captures delicate lips in a sharp kiss, and George laughs, pulling away, leaving Dream chasing. 

George places his palm against Dream's needy lips and raises an amused brow.

"What's got you all touchy?" George asks, and a part of him already knows the answer, but he'll never get tired of hearing Dream say it. 

Thankfully, Dream will never tire of saying it. 

"I love you, George," Dream answers with a deep chortle, softly pressing a kiss to the palm now cupping his cheek, smiling wider when George melts into it.

And George rolls his eyes and breathes out a laugh. 

Still, despite the poor facade of annoyance, George leans forwards, continuing the kiss he'd pulled away from with passion and warmth.

And Dream kisses roughly, passionately.

He kisses George like the world is ending and all he wants is to die with the taste of the man on his tongue, kisses like George will slip away at any moment, kisses George like he's missing out on something every second he's not doing it.

He's all sharp bites to George's bottom lip, all demanding licks into George's mouth with a tongue that insists on exploring every bit, all tightening grips to George's sides with large hands at every needy whine George gives him.

He's all uncontrolled strength, unapologetic touches. 

And George melts into it with his dainty permission, opened mouth, soft smirk. George melts into it with excited gasps, tiny whines, needy tongue. George melts into it again and again until his lungs start to burn for air and he has to stop melting.

Together, they're desire and devotion, the line between what's good and what's risky. 

It's unreal.

George pulls away panting, pushing Dream back with a gentle hand, gasping for air, ignoring Dream's smug look, ignoring Dream's narrowed, self-satisfied smirk. 

Their pupils are both blown wide, pink blushes over both their faces, a dazed sort of look to their eyes, and this is them.

This is them. 

"I love you," Dream says. 

And this time, George doesn't have the urge to turn and run. This time, George isn't afraid of how those words make him feel. 

Instead, he smiles.

"I love you," George returns.

And it's the most honest he's ever been.

**Author's Note:**

> stupid idiots dweam and gog, my little enablers 😫😋🙌🙏🙏
> 
> LMAO HI. thanks for reading bby writing this was hard lmao. im gonna b fr ive read this so many times i genuinely cant tell if its even good anymore so shiiiiit i guess !💪💪
> 
> the characterisation in this one was really fun to do too, focusing on how their changes in personalities affects their relationship like uh idk 
> 
> dream's reluctance in letting himself take what he wants for fear of being hurt, pushing george away with aggression instead of how we saw him reel george in with it in the other fic🙏😫😫. george whos actively and frantically working to undo years of toxic behavior. i really fucking liked writing his conflicted feelings and dream's ambiguous sort of violent character n all that, and i really hope yall liked it too😄👍👍
> 
> watching them both fall into confusion thanks to all these new changes and feelings and situations was such an awesome thing to be able to write n it was hard shifting scenes and making the transitions be as smooth or as rough as i wanted them to be but in the end im genuinely satisfied and i hope u were too. and if u weren't. cope ig
> 
> anyway bye lmfao gg  
> alyssa  
> discord: kuppypuppy#4846  
> twitter : [@ffonippop](https://mobile.twitter.com/ffonippop)  
> tumblr : [@ffonippop](https://tumblr.com/blog/ffonippop)  
> btw this work is gifted to a poggers mf [loglady1980](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loglady1980) and i seriously doubt id have ever even finished this at all without her so like. check her fics out. like u dont have to but srsly her writing is genuinely so good and if u don't check it then ur missing out and im pointing and laughing at u so hard rn 😂😕❗❗❗❗


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